The Night Queen
by StarvingSun
Summary: In the sunless depths of Coruscant, she holds court. Her subjects are a sightless legion, and now they stir, growing restless. The mother of the wretched, the matron of the damned. Few, if any, have seen her kingdom and retained sanity enough to tell the tale. To many, you see, she is but a whisper on the wind whipping between buildings - The Night Queen.


**IT WAS A** silent holotape, and that only added to the eerie aesthetic. Soundless, like the vacuum of space, and just as empty of warmth. Nothing good was here. Slowly, mechanically, the Jedi slid his fingers up to his mouth, shrouding it in uncomfortable disgust. His eyes were affixed to the screen, and cast in a blue sheen was the reflection of the tape. It felt as though it were boring into his skull via his eyes.

The young woman at the center of the video's attention was in agony. Hand over hand, she crawled forward, a thick trail of blood in her wake. Her eyes were wide and blazing with fear, and her body weak and quivering. Though he could not hear it, the Jedi's imagination compensated. He could sense her desperate gasps, the staccato jabs of fearful half-words, punctuated by short spikes of loud cries. But there was a curious aspect to all of this, as horrific as it was. Whoever tortured this poor victim was not in the frame, which was held completely still, as though the camera was placed precisely in a way as to track her progress across the floor. Someone's sick interests were playing out on screen.

Sadly, he reflected, this was part of his job. He had and would continue to watch this grizzly holotape until something actionable leapt out at him. But he felt closer than ever. His eyes scanned back and forth, studying the broken face and matted hair of the woman. She seemed to know she was being recorded, as her eyes stared directly into the camera - into his. Disturbingly, he had come to the conclusion after but a single watch that this entire thing had the air of an art film, like whoever made it relished the task, put effort into perfecting the final product. The Jedi's fist clenched. Raw anxiety played on his shoulders, tingling down his torso, and his foot tapped furiously. He wanted this to be over.

Now, perhaps mercifully, came the finale. The victim had made it to the camera and placed her hands on either side of it. Peering frightfully into the lens, she opened her mouth, ostensibly to speak something. But she never got that far. The sclera of her eyes suddenly became afflicted by a murky black ink, spreading like a spider. When the tendrils reached her pupils, she froze, completely rigid. Then she collapsed, dead. The Jedi leaned in forward, watching intently. This was the part. Her lifeless face and black eyes laid on the floor. And then, just before the video ended, she began to be dragged by her foot.

Someone _was_ there.

He leaned back, staring at the now solid white screen. Black words spilled out across it, taunting him. "Part 2 coming soon," they said.

Micah intended to never let that happen. But he didn't have much to work with. Sighing, the Knight rolled his palms over his hair, applying pressure to his weary temples and neck. He'd spent the last four hours in here, analyzing the tape. His sense of duty let him contemplate doing nothing else. He wanted to right the wrong that had been done to that poor girl, but even more than that, he found himself wanting to know _why._ Micah didn't need to ask _who_ would do a thing like this; that he already knew, unfortunately. It was how these people got to such a state of depravity that had him spellbound.

Over the past two weeks, an explosion of missing persons reports had materialized from a particular sector of the Coruscant underworld. Millions of people went missing on the planet everyday, but this uninteresting block of metal and shadow, Y-67, was garnering an increasing reputation for itself as a death trap. It was from here that the tape had originated, discovered laying next to an unassuming HoloNet terminal. Watching it, it was clear the tape had every intention of making its way to law enforcement, but Y-67 was so swamped with police combs and canvassing to try and combat the torrent of disappearing people, the Jedi had been asked to become involved. Something sinister was going on down there.

It was the malady in the eyes Micah now considered, leaning back in his chair and regarding the dark ceiling above. He had seen neurotoxins evidence themselves in such a manner. However, the speed at which the onset of whatever had best the victim's eyes was new to him. While he could think of a few compounds that might fit the bill, he would ultimately need a sample. It would be unsurprising to Micah if he were to uncover a new black market chemical weapon. In this line of work, he had learned to take nothing at face value. Worse things were always waiting.

"Any luck?" Master Arathor asked. The automatic door slid open with a distinct pop. Micah turn his seat around to shake his head at the male Togruta.

"No, Master, I'm afraid not. This tape has very little in the way of mistakes."

"Well, it's certainly not for lack of trying," the Master said firmly, placing a warm hand on Micah's shoulder. "You've been in here all morning. Why don't you see about a break?"

"I think that would be a good idea," Micah groaned, lifting himself from the chair. Behind closed eyelids, he saw a blueish-white square of the monitor he had been staring at. Burn-in. Micah stretched and rubbed his aching limbs.

"Perhaps a visit to the location would yield more information," Arathor suggested. "The Force is much more apt to guide you in-person."

Micah nodded. He would do just that.

 **THE GUARDIANS TRAINED** in a hall sequestered just for them. Large enough to facilitate the swinging of their lightsabers and the tremendous feats of athleticism they performed, but also far enough away from the more studious elements of the Temple that required a quieter atmosphere. A hundred lightsabers could generate quite a bit of noise.

Micah heard Brox's unmistakable voice instructing learners in a combat chamber, and it made him smile. The man was an absolute terror for many of the prospective Guardians of the Order; his strict adherence to regimen and the nightmarish level of conditioning required to be his student scared off many. But it was worth it. Brox was the premier Weapon Master on Coruscant. Jedi came from across the Galaxy to learn from him. And some just to see his fabled stature.

Micah leaned with folded arms in the doorway, watching Brox's class. These were not Padawans today - older students populated the sunlit gymnasium. The pungent smell of sweat drenched the air, and heavy breathing wracked their bodies. One young man was bent over, desperately clutching the fabric of his shorts in an effort to stay on his feet. Micah's smile bloomed into a full-blown grin as Brox strode amongst his field of students.

"When battle comes - and it will come, make no mistake - do you really think your opponents will allow you _anything_? A space to breathe? Room to maneuverer? Time to think?" Silence, save for the panting. "No. Of course they won't. Your prayers for mercy will go unanswered, in the real world as well as in my hall. Say what you will of my methods, but know this: You will not be unprepared." His eyes drifted towards the door, finding Micah. "Dismissed."

"Are you here to tell me I'm too hard on them, again?" Brox mused, strolling over to Micah. The man was immense. A human, but of dubious genetic purity, Brox towered at seven feet tall and bore three hundred solid pounds of muscle. Micah had always speculated that his DNA contained a bit of Wookie, somehow.

"Never again. I learned my lesson."

Brox smirked. "What brings you here? I thought you had a new case."

"There's always another case," Micah sighed. "This one, though…"

"Bad?"

"The worst." Micah explained everything he knew so far, including the grizzly details of the holotape. Even Brox cocked an eyebrow when he heard Micah recant that tale.

"Depraved. But not unprecedented," Brox finally commented. Micah's gaze drifted to the distant students wrapping up after their lesson.

"Mmm," he agreed idly. "Listen, I'm going to need M3R1 back for a bit. I have footage that needs a fine-tooth analysis."

Brox shrugged. "I'll ask," he said, sounding unconvinced of his ability to reclaim the droid. "But you know how she is with her."

"Well, you have some time to work on her," Micah replied with a thin smile. "I'm going to canvass at the scene. But I need that droid when I get back." Brox sighed and pinched between his eyebrows.

"Fine. Let me go find Cerei," Brox sighed, brushing past Micah. However, he wheeled around to add something. "But you should know. Last time I had to get Meryl from that girl, it cost me."

"How much?"

"You know those Tibanna Splits? From the diner?" Brox asked. Micah nodded. "Four of them."

"H-how could she eat that many?" Micah asked incredulously.

"She's nine years-old, Micah. She's a damn trash compactor," Brox tossed over his shoulder. And then he was gone.

 **IF ONE WERE** inclined to wander far enough, he would notice a widening of the Temple and an influx of sunlight drenching the cool walls and floors. Like a pond, the floor melded into an expanse of turquoise, a meshing of blues and greens. Soft voices murmured not secrets of ancient Jedi lore, but of practical and immediate concern. These were the Halls of Healing, the medical wing of the Jedi Temple, and it was here that Brox had come in search of a talented young Padawan named Cerei.

These days, the vast majority of the beds lining the Halls were empty. The Galaxy was in a valley of peace, so to speak, in between peaks of turmoil. Still, there must always be an up-and-coming generation of Healers, and none from the current crop stood out quite like Cerei. Despite her young age, it was apparent she was incredibly gifted in the restorative arts of the Force. That said, her gifts came with peculiarities. Cerei was notoriously difficult to track down - even for her teachers, who often were caught in a frantic scramble to find her. She had trouble with skipping lessons, preferring to learn at her own (extremely elevated) pace. Brox was not at all sure he would find her in the Halls today, even though that was definitely where she _should_ be. Thus the vexatious nature of the errand Micah had sent him on.

"Master Brox," a lofty, mathematical voice chimed. Brox stopped on his heel and looked sideways towards the source. A robed healer, his hands clasped at his waist, was staring at him. Brox sauntered over to the man and his high brow and dark, slicked-back hair.

"Master Martin. I'm looking for Cerei," Brox said. He had every intention of keeping his conversation with this person short.

"Aren't we all?" Martin queried. "The girl is quite troublesome. She misses far too many lessons."

Brox wanted to say it was because she was bored, but he bit his tongue. "Well, if I could find her, I'd be happy to talk to her about that for you. Any idea where she might be this time?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," Martin said. Brox particularly disliked how the man's eyes always seemed half-closed, as if the world around him wasn't important enough to worry about. "Though I _do_ hope she's safe. We were to practice burn repairs today, and you know how she has a tendency to conduct…experiments on her own."

Brox sucked in one cheek in frustration. "Alright. How can you just let a nine-year old elude you like this? I understand certain parts of your training might have lapsed down here in your total lack of engagement with the outside world, but you're still a Jedi, aren't you?"

Master Martin blinked at the slight. "The girl's ego is too large for her own good. It will lead her down a dangerous path if it cannot be checked."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but weren't you the youngest Master of the Circle of Healers?" Brox asked.

"Why yes, I was."

"So then who's ego is _really_ at risk, here?" Brox and Martin held an intense glare.

"Um, excuse me? Masters?" a female voice interrupted. They both snapped to look. "Forgive me, but I couldn't help but overhear you were talking about Cerei."

"Do you know where she is?" Brox asked the young nurse.

"Yes, I believe so," she replied, somewhat nervous. "I saw her and her droid headed towards the library earlier."

"Thanks," Brox said curtly, and swept past her towards the turbolift.

Sure enough, Brox found her tucked away in the blue glow of the Archives. The massive, towering shelves created many tiny nooks and crannies for a little body to tuck itself away in, but Brox had a distinct advantage in that he could reach out through the Force and listen for the minute hum of M3R1's circuitry. There were many protocol and janitorial droids in the archives, but only one diminutive remote.

"There you are," he said, ducking in to look at Cerei's hiding spot beneath a table with a cloth overhanging the edge. She looked up at him with mild surprise, then went back to the datapad on her knees.

"Hi, Brox," she said, short and unworried. The spherical M3R1 spun around once to greet him as well.

"You cut class again," he said. It was a statement; not a scolding.

"Mhmm," she confirmed, not looking up from her studies.

"Cerei…"

"It was just burns. I already know how to treat burns."

"I'm sure you do, but that's not the point - what are you doing?!"

"Showing you," she said matter-of-factly. M3R1 extended its short soldering wand towards Cerei's outstretched forearm. It zapped her skin before Brox had a chance to react, but the child didn't so much as wince. Instead, she calmly focused on the burn, and hovered her opposite hand above it. Brox watched, fascinated, as a soft white glow emanated from her palm, a wave of healing light mending the scorched area. Within a few moments, she proudly showed him her wound-free arm.

"It is _really_ weird that you do that," Brox commented of her self-mutilation. Cerei shrugged, though she was beaming at him.

"It's like you always say to your students: Pain passes."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean you should go searching for it."

Cerei flashed him a wicked grin. "Then why did you come looking for me?"

Brox scratched at his cheek distractedly. "I, uh, need Meryl." The little droid whirled and chimed at its pet name being pronounced.

Cerei, however, was less amused. With a frustrated sigh, she turned her mouth into a thin line. Her eyes told the story: compensation would be necessary.

"Hey, it's not like I'm happy to ask. Micah should do it himself, but…he's busy. Cut me some slack, please."

"Fine," Cerei said curtly. "But tell him Meryl likes me better and that we're best friends. Right, Meryl?" The droid, oblivious to the true meaning of what the humans were talking about, excitedly chirped in the affirmative. "Also, she says I deserve ice cream to ease the pain of our parting."

"Again?!" Brox groaned. "Those things aren't cheap. Jedi are supposed to live simply. Humble stature, and all that."

"I'm kidding," Cerei said, giggling. "I'll extract my payment from Micah, this time."

"Someone really needs to have you brush up on your knowledge of the Code," Brox chided, rising to leave.

"Maybe, but we both know that won't be you."

She got him there.

 **A LOOSE SHIMMER** of rain had begun to pelt the walkways of Y-67 by the time Micah arrived. He walked beneath his hood, hands folded in the heavy sleeves of his robe. A sea of life swam around him; so many thoughts, feelings, words. It was a current all too easy to be swept away in, unless one sensitive to it was trained properly. Micah could tread the waters of such densely packed life, even swim against it for a time if the need arose. But a Jedi's first inclination was always taught to be to flow at a controlled pace. Respect the river, but assert your place in it.

That is, until the river carried you into a rock.

Micah's feet seemed to halt themselves. Such an intense pull could not be ignored; he turned, casting a critical glance towards a HoloNet station, tucked away in an unassuming alcove off the main thoroughfare. He knew before he even had confirmation. This was the place.

He walked towards it, the crowd of passer-bys parting around him. A thin film of water had spread across the plasteel table, and pooled on the stool. He swept it away with his hand, then sat, reaching out with his perceptions. The Force echoed back to him, and strongly at that. This was what he sought, and he'd found it so easily.

And he could not shake the feeling that it was by design.

By now, though…

Rain pelted his robes and the kiosk. He felt a very slight, effervescent presence, like the indention left on a mattress where someone once laid sleeping. Whatever ghost he was chasing was long gone. Micah's fingers traced over the terminal. He only caught glimpses and nothing more. Certainly nothing coherent enough to aid his case. Blowing a stream of air from his nostrils, he turned his face upward towards the rain, letting it run down his cheeks, wetting his thin beard.

"I'll find you…" he whispered to the grey sky.

"Afternoon," a male voice greeted behind him. Micah turned, surprised. He'd gotten lost in his own thoughts and failed to sense the newcomer. Or perhaps, the man knew how to keep a Jedi from looking.

But he wasn't a vagrant. An official Coruscant police uniform adorned his chest. There was the faintest indication of a smile on his lips, suggesting his mouth didn't know any other resting position. Plush blond hair, slicked back on his head, and cerulean eyes rounded out his features.

"Detective Cade Rigger. Homicide."

Micah extended a hand and they shook. "It would seem we've been assigned to the same troubling case then, detective," Micah replied warmly. He smiled serenely.

Cade jerked his head. "Come on, Jedi. Let's get out of this rain. You guys eat, don't you?"

Cade led Micah a few blocks away to a ramshackle overhang serving noodles. The sweet spike of alien spices reached Micah's nose. While perhaps lacking the proper standards when it came to building codes, or more importantly, the _health_ codes, these shanty food recesses were part of what made Coruscant what it was. A densely packed ball of culture. Cade apparently knew this place well, as he nodded to the Quarren chef barely glanced towards the detective whilst tending to the orders of other customers. Soon enough, though, two ceramic bowls of steaming noodles in vegetable broth were placed swiftly before them on the chipped counter.

"So," Cade started, blowing his food to cool. "You had the same thought I did."

Micah flicked him a glance, twirling his noodles around his eating sticks. "To see through the eyes of the Force?"

"Maybe that's what you call it," Cade replied, a vacuum-like effort drawing an effusion of noodles into his mouth. "Personally, I call it relying on the old police instinct. Some of us still have the natural talent for it. Go figure."

Micah grinned at the man's confidence. Most cases of measurable difficulty were quickly sent off to the Temple to be assigned to a Jedi detail. It was a recent trend in the past several decades that had left many such, "natural police" as Cade with a chip on their shoulder. Sharp eyes and a quick wit made for an excellent investigator, but they could rarely outdo the sometimes-miraculous feats of the Force.

"Soft eyes," Cade said between mouthfuls, his attention primarily fixated on his bowl. "That's the trick to it."

"Soft?" Micah said, blinking. Sharp was the adjective he had in mind.

"Yeah. Soft." Cade looked at Micah directly. "You look too hard, you start to miss all the little details that spell out the story. But you look with soft eyes, the story has a chance to jump out at you."

Micah nodded in acknowledgment. Perhaps he had something more to learn here. The rain formed a loud hiss of sound outside the shack, great sheets of water pouring off the slanted roof.

"What bothers me is this deal with the tape. Psychopaths like that, who taunt the police in that manner…" Cade trailed off, rubbing his stubbled chin. "There's something special about that kind of illness."

"I'm inclined to agree," Micah spoke. "A depraved heart coupled with just enough self-reflection to realize what he's doing is wrong -"

"Or she," Cade cut-in, shooting the Jedi a sideways glance. Micah cocked an eyebrow his way. "I've heard some rumors."

"Do tell."

Cade leaned in. "They're calling her, 'the Night Queen'. Some kind of urban legend cropping up amongst the locals as of late."

"The Night Queen?" Micah repeated. Cade urged him to keep his voice down.

"Yeah. They don't like talking about her much down here. It's hard to find someone who will. Makes me think there's something to it."

"And you think she's responsible for the murder tapes?" Micah asked quietly.

"Well, the locals seem to think so," Cade said, receding back. "But like I said, its just rumors. Worth looking into, though."

"Agreed."

 **CADE WASN** **'T THE** primary on this case. In fact, calling it a case was a bit of a stretch. Very few people even wanted to acknowledge the rapid disappearance of life in Y-67. Indeed, Cade suspected that trepidation was the root of the fast-tracking the tape received on its way to the Jedi Temple. Out of sight, out of mind.

Coruscant, as matter of necessity, partitioned its policing by segmenting the planet into precincts. There was variance to the crime amongst the precincts, both in terms of quantity and quality. Crime in the commercial sectors of the planet was not crime in the industrial, and so on. That said, one unfortunate truth persisted no matter where one walked on the great city-world: Where there was life, there was also violence.

Cade had come to realize over the course of his career that a man could be persuaded to kill for any number of reasons. The motivation might be different each time, but the result was not. It was a gruesome thing. And Cade loved it.

There were stakes - real ones. He felt no more alive than when he was on the scene, dissecting it for clues. If he was being honest with himself, Cade would admit that he felt little to no sympathy for the victims. They weren't around to feel sorry for themselves, so he lost little sleep over it. That lack of heartfelt compassion, he felt, also served to help Cade get into the minds of those who would commit such acts. With that advantage, he could be as deadly to them as they were to their prey. Cade's clearance rate for the latest solar cycle was well over seventy percent. Pitting that against a Jedi was an enticing prospect. And so when Cade learned the Y-67 abductions had produced a body, and that body had caught the watch of the Sentinels at the Temple, a slow, indulgent smile emerged on his lips. He unofficially detailed himself to the case.

It was about the thrill of the hunt, he supposed. A philosophy diametrically opposed to the Jedi's, but that contrast might serve to highlight the difference in their approach. Cade welcomed the competition. Someone in his life wouldn't, though.

"A detail?" Myssa asked, distracted by the setting of their dining table. "Overtime?" His wife was practiced. She knew all the right questions.

"Definitely," Cade lied. He flicked his eyes discreetly towards her harried face to gauge the reaction. To his relief, he found calm acceptance. If there was overtime money being paid out, Myssa couldn't complain.

A tentative cry piqued the ears of both parents. Cade's daughter Shel had dispensed with her toys on the floor of their modest Coruscant apartment. Outside, the low hum of the skylane traffic never ceased. Imitating the shuttles ingrained in her young mind, the Cade swooped in and scooped her up. Shel squealed and her mother beamed. Cade grinned back at her. And here, he thought, was why Myssa couldn't say no to the job. They needed those credits.

But he needed the challenge more.

 **OFTEN TIMES, A** man has an inclination to tempt fate. To shout into the void. Just to see what echoes back.

The beady red goggles of a Coruscant police's foot patrol unit peered into the gloom of an alley between buildings. The serviceman inside had heard _something_ , but it was the kind of feint something that might suggest it wasn't what he initially suspected. That it might be his imagination filling in blanks, and that the surge he felt when he heard the distant cry of terror was unnecessary. The officer stood stock-still in the mouth of that dark alley, the space itself seeming to swell in grow in the shadows. Like a valley between mountains, and inside…

He wanted to face forward and continue along his beat. On the comms, the chatter of his fellow officers was almost soothingly normal. There was a civilization out there, and though it may be depraved, at least it was the evil he could see. Of course, there might be nothing at all down that alley. But if that wasn't the case, then his sense of duty compelled him to investigate. Someone may need help. And leaving anyone behind wasn't something he could do in good conscience. He wasn't one of _those_ police, after all.

So his boot found the slightly damp duracrete. He brushed past the piles of rubbish, the skittering rats, the steaming vents. How deep did this thing go? Night vision afforded by his goggles revealed a grainy blue picture of one of Coruscant's billions of secret places. The city itself was like an organism, smashing together to create folds of tissue, and he was left to wander in the creases, hoping to find nothing too horrible. The alley took a turn.

"I have a bad feeling about this," he muttered.

Down past the farthest reaches he could see, something stirred. He approached with caution, something curious driving him forward, as opposed to any sense of duty. No reward, monetary or otherwise, was worth trawling for danger in Coruscant's shaded crevasses. But a haunting, oppressive desire to know was human, and so he walked onward.

Until he caught himself looking at a hunched over girl, matted black hair and stark white skin, gnawing on a prostrate corpse. With a primal grunt of surprise, she froze, her hands at her mouth and suspended in their greed. She turned her head backwards to look at him, black hair falling over milky white eyes.

The scream that echoed across the Y-67 police channel blitzed the ears of every available officer, and rapid pings on their datapads indicated the sudden fading of a fellow officer's vitals.

But in the alley, a calmer personality gingerly picked his way around the scene of a hungry murder, watching with shrewd concern as his charge ate her fill of yet another citizen. Except this time, it was no citizen. It was police. And that carried a certain weight.

"Well…" sighed the young human, running his hands through sandy blond hair. "This is an issue."

"Why would it be that?" a female voice questioned from the black shadows. A confident stride of boots on duracrete echoed as his master approached. "I thought this was what we decided we _wanted_ to happen."

"But so soon?" he asked. "Are you sure we have the depth? This will be a hard battle."

The Night Queen grinned at her lieutenant.

"Depth is the one thing we will always have. _In abundance_."


End file.
